Acquisition
by trufflemores
Summary: Star Trek!Klaine AU. Blaine Anderson, disenchanted former Starfleet cadet, is about to come into contact with Kurt Hummel, a Vulcan-human Starfleet Commander, on an unexpected mission after rejoining the fleet. Based on Star Trek 2009. Klaine. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit. I also do not own Star Trek or any of its characters; all Star Trek affiliates, including Gene Roddenberry and J.J. Abrams, hold those honors.

Stardate: 2233.04

Lieutenant Commander John Anderson awoke from a sound sleep to the screech of sirens, ship-wide, half a hundred footsteps pounding down the halls just beyond his quarters. Hauling himself from the bunk, he sank his feet into his boots and laced them up, heart pounding as the red alert continued to screech mayhem above.

_All personnel report to the launch deck for immediate evacuation. All personnel report to the launch deck for immediate evacuation._

"Fuck," he grunted, ramming his shoulder into the door as the ship jolted unexpectedly, flinging him bodily against its metal surface. His hair was already a mess, his uniform tousled, but none of that mattered as he forced the door open and shouldered his way into the crowd.

There were hundreds of panic-stricken crewmen racing for safety, many of them supporting a comrade over a shoulder, limbs seared by chemical explosions near the engines. Wincing sympathetically, John hesitated, knowing that as a higher officer it was his obligation to assist in the evacuations if necessary, including removal of the dead and safeguard of the dying whenever possible.

_All personnel report to the launch deck for immediate evacuation_, the overhead speaker system sang. _All personnel – _making his decision, John tore down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Lieutenant," one of the underlings greeted as soon as he emerged onto the deck, saluting belatedly as the ship rocked again, forcing her hand to seize the panel in front of her to maintain an upright position. "We're under attack, we've yet to identify the hostiles –"

"They're Romulans," a deep, surprisingly calm voice corrected. John turned just in time to see Captain Richard Robau approach, broad shoulders set, eyes dark and certain as they locked onto John's, his blue uniform still hailing authority even amid the sea of other crewmen struggling to keep the ship alive. His bald pate seemed to emphasize the intelligence underneath it, his movements steady and precise. There was a graveness to his posture that made John's blood run cold, a sense of doom settling over him even before Robau spoke. "Unfortunately the rogue ones aren't particularly well-known for being the type to surrender peacefully."

On cue, another explosion rocked the ship, more alarms crying out shrilly from the command board as crewmen rushed to confirm data and patch holes where possible. It was a cacophony of sound, a barbaric environment for any captain to command in, but Robau didn't waver, didn't snap once for them to _quiet _as John might have under the same distress. He stood and listened to the reports, more dire by the second as different systems failed, and issued the appropriate defense measures.

It wasn't until "Shields at thirty two percent, sir," that John's confidence in the ship's survival vanished.

Another volley of charges exploded across the ship's saucer, prompting a loud, "_Dammit_," from Robau as everyone clung to the nearest railing, bile rising in John's throat as the same crewmember called bleakly, "Shields at eighteen percent, sir."

"The ship can't take much more of this," John warned, aware that he was stating the obvious and unable to keep from saying it. Everyone in the room knew that the ship would be doomed once the shields were offline; it was only a matter of time before the charges destroyed the ship's defenses entirely.

Fear, vacant and almost expressionless, was heavy in the air, a toxin that spread from crewmember to crewmember as Robau ordered at last, "Abandon stations."

"Sir, we can't –"

"I order all of you to evacuate. The ship's autopilot will take care of the rest," Robau snapped. There were wild eyes, half-human eyes, utterly inhuman faces gazing back at him, misunderstanding an order only given in theory, not application.

John was certain, then, that pandemonium was about to break loose, that all the careful training Starfleet had issued to its personnel would fail in the wake of genuine doom, when the front panel flickered twice before coming to life with a deep, sonorous, "Hello."

Unflinching and utterly implacable, Robau stepped forward to the center of the bridge and recited evenly, "This is Captain Richard Robau of the USS _Kelvin, _to whom am I speaking?"

The image flickered in and out of existence, the ship's front panel too damaged to sustain a clear image, but the figure projected was still sinister: a stoic face with clouded black eyes and a bent smile, vacantly pleased. The hairlessness of the figure seemed to emphasize its alienness; even its brows were sleek and immovable, decorated richly with splashes of dark green spires, tattoos or imprints, John couldn't tell.

_Romulan_, he thought, trying to rectify his trained ideas of a richly cultural, peaceful peoples with the figure standing before them now, one out-of-sight finger poised on the guns facing the USS _Kelvin_ and her demise.

_This is a Romulan._

"Your ship's weapons have been neutralized. Your warp drive has been disabled. Your shields are almost gone. You have no means of escape." To hear the words aloud sent a new thrill of horror down John's spine; he was suddenly, keenly aware of every living organism in the room, human or otherwise, shrinking vaguely inward, a hunch of shoulders, a fold of arms. "Captain Robau," the figure said, addressing Robau directly. He stared at him with such intensity that John felt compelled to stand before Robau and accept the phaser beam that seemed inevitably forthcoming. "You will come aboard our ship to negotiate a peace treaty. If you refuse, then your vessel will be destroyed. Your presence is requested by 02:00 hours. That is all."

The front panel image stuttered once, scattering particles of the Romulan's image across the screen in a horrible caricature, before it vanished entirely, leaving only a stark, unforgiving view of the black space before them and a massive ship several miles away.

"Sir, you can't go aboard," John said at once, staring in bleak dismay at the heavily spired, incomprehensibly _massive _ship poised before them, ready to destroy them.

The _Kelvin _didn't stand a chance against it, but her crew didn't stand a chance without Robau.

"Prepare a shuttle," Robau ordered one of the crewmen quietly. He sounded sober, a dead man announcing his own funeral, but his gaze was fierce as he met John's, commanding, "Anderson, follow me."

_Don't do this,_ John entreated, dutifully falling into place behind him as Robau commanded the elevator and stepped inside without looking back. _Don't you dare do this._

John stepped in beside him and the elevator doors shut, whisking them downward with a series of loud, aching screams, cables and wires disagreeing with the movement. It was a miracle, John reflected, when they came at last to a halt at the Engineering deck.

"Sir, I don't think this is the most practical application of your ability," John said, pleading with him openly but keeping his voice as steady as he could, resolving to stay calm. As long as Robau was calm, then he needed to be calm, presenting a sense of authority to the crewmembers that saluted them briskly as they passed.

"There is no more practical application of my abilities, Anderson," Robau dismissed. "The ship will go down if I don't attempt to negotiate with them."

"Sir –"

They were running out of deck between them and the launch pad, but Robau didn't slow his step at all.

It wasn't until they came to a temporary halt before an elevator that Robau said, "Get everyone off this ship."

"Aye, Captain," John replied, watching the doors swish open as Robau stepped into them, aware that he wasn't meant to follow as Robau pressed a button and met his gaze.

"You're Captain now," was all he said, as the doors fell shut, leaving John alone once more.

. o .

_You're Captain now._

"Lieut – we can't get a visual on Robau but we are receiving transmissions of his vitals, sir."

"Put them on the screen," John ordered. Soft, too soft. Authoritative, he needed to be authoritative or the command line would fall apart.

Even so, he felt like he was falling apart, grasping the handrail with desperate hands, willing Robau to return soon because he couldn't do this. He couldn't handle a crisis like this, not when _eight hundred fucking people _depended on him.

_You're Captain now._

"His heart rate is elevated, but all his vitals seem unharmed."

_You're Captain now._

"Heart rate and perspiration levels are up."

_You're Captain._

"Heart rate spiking –"

_Captain._

"TERMINATED."

. o .

"Captain, we have a confirmed fatality, I repeat, confirmed fatality at 02:07 hours."

John couldn't hear through the ringing in his ears. It wasn't until the ship rocked again, propelling him into the control board that he snapped out of his daze, barking, "All hands to evacuation sites, that's not a suggestion, that's an order!"

There was a rush for the doors as lesser personnel evacuated, John's communicator beeping as he picked it up and answered gruffly, "Lieutenant – Captain John Anderson speaking."

"John?"

Oh, God. "Ava," he said, hushed and staggered. "Get to the shuttles."

"John, it's – " She was breathing heavily, wildly, erratically, and John had a single horrified image of her with a phaser beam through her hip, her side, her chest, _anyway, _before she gasped, "the baby – it's coming. It's coming now."

God Almighty.

"Get to the shuttles," he repeated, urgent, now, a desperation and a need to be there crawling under his skin so intensely it was a miracle that he didn't abandon the bridge as it shook violently underfoot. "Sweetheart, get to the shuttles. It'll be fine. Everything will be fine."

"John, you have to be here," Ava gasped, groaning into the receiver as another contraction – _God Almighty _– pulsed through her. "You have to – "

"I'm on my way," John lied, punching in codes, urging the computers to listen to him, dammit, instead of flashing more warnings at him. The Romulan had summed it up neatly: all systems were failing. Warp drive had already been knocked out, engines were down to zero, and weapons were still online but sickeningly vulnerable to the incoming fire. Shields had fallen to six percent, and with no extra hands on deck, John felt the world spinning as he surveyed the bridge, pristine and immaculate a mere hour before, reduced to an empty haul under the torrent.

"Autopilot disabled, manual operation only," a cool, mechanical voice informed. "Autopilot disabled, manual operation only."

_Fuck._

Two options lay before John Anderson: abandon ship and all eight hundred occupants to their fate.

Or, as the ship's internal auto-reader directed: _Manual operation only._

Letting out a long, deep breath, John straightened his uniform, flipped open his communicator, and ordered his new first officer: "Evacuate all shuttles."

"Aye, Command – Captain," the woman replied with unflinching obedience, and John breathed easier as the ship screamed around him.

Time to put the weapons to good use, he thought, punching in commands as sparks flickered from various panels around him, smoke beginning to fill the bridge.

Time to take those bastards out.

. o .

"John, where's John, he has to – he's supposed to be here," Ava gasped.

"Ma'am, I need you to return to your seat," the medical officer ordered, gentle but stern as a different officer punched in the launch codes.

Ava didn't want to be still, though, her body wracked with its own primeval spasms as she groaned and struggled to her feet, collapsing backwards with a gasped plea. "I have – I have to see him, please, he's my _husband._"

"The captain has ordered us to launch," the technician replied, almost apologetically as the door began to close and no, _no, _John wasn't _there _yet.

"John," she pleaded, wrenching her communicator from her belt and entreating, "John, _John._"

There was silence for a long moment, and then, breaking through the storm: "Sweetheart, I really can't talk right now."

"John, the shuttle – the shuttle's taking off."

"I know, darling; I told them to."

_No, _Ava thought, desperation and despair warring in her mind as she said, babbling, barely conscious of her own words, "You have to get on the shuttle, John, the shuttle's _leaving, _John."

"I know, I know. It's okay."

"It's _not _okay, you can't _do this, _John."

"I'm sorry."

A whisper, a terrible whisper that would change her life, and then, the technician once more: "We're waiting on your orders, Captain."

"Go now," John stated firmly, no room for doubt, and the technician didn't hesitate.

"Aye, Captain."

Ava wailed as the doors closed, her body contorting with the agony of her labors as, hundreds of feet above them, John rushed from panel to panel, firing missiles at the stray charges launched towards the departing shuttles.

. o .

"Weapons offline," a calm, mechanized voice reported as John stared down at his hands and the blank panels underneath them.

_Weapons offline._

Dead in the air.

Closing his eyes for a moment, feeling the tremors of the ship underneath him, wild, angry convolutions, he punched in the last command with trembling fingers.

_Target acquired._

"Warning: collision course activated. Confirm?"

Sinking back into the captain's chair, suddenly, infinitely weary, John replied hoarsely, "Confirm."

"Collision course acquired."

On screen, a red target box appeared around the heart of the enemy ship, a ticker rapidly pacing down from ninety seconds as the ship began its final fatal march.

Breathing slowly, John clutched the arms of his seat as a new transmission appeared on his communicator, hitting accept and closing his eyes.

They flew open a moment later at the soft, unmistakable crying of a newborn, his hands turning vice-like around the chair. "What is it?" he asked.

Soft, overwhelmed: "It's a boy."

"A boy?" John had to press both fists to his eyes for a moment, almost falling out of his chair as the ship rocked again, gasping. "Tell me about him," he insisted, hungry for knowledge, for anything to cling to in the dark looming ahead.

"He's your son," Ava replied. "Same gorgeous blue eyes." She laughed, and he had to wipe his nose because it was so _silly, _every baby had blue eyes, but there was something inexplicably comforting about it. Something that was his. Someone who would outlast him.

His eyes had always been his most striking feature, a piercing, vibrant blue. His curls were too messy to be attractive, his frame too lean, but somehow Ava loved him and he knew that the baby would love him, too.

Then, choked, she said: "You should be here."

Reality crushed the fantasy, banishing the dreams of days out on the grass playing with his son, days at home cooking dinner with them both, days of music and laughter and joy, days of seemingly eternal summer bliss between periods of riotous excitement at Starfleet.

There would be no more excitement, he knew, staring at the ticker as it continued to flicker downward. No more joy. No more life.

"What should we name him?" he asked, because if these were his last moments alive then he'd be damned if he'd waste them silent.

Joking, almost amused, Ava replied, "We could name him after your father."

John laughed in spite of himself, grateful that he'd go down with a smile as he said, "Tiberius? That's terrible."

_Fifteen seconds._

"Why don't – let's name him after your dad. Let's call him Blaine."

"Blaine." Ava hummed, a soft, pleased sound. "Blaine," she repeated.

_Ten seconds._

"Sweetheart," he warned, aware that his time was running out and needing to say something, "I love you."

"Don't go," she begged, and it made his heart pound because he had never wanted anything more in his life than to be on that shuttle.

"I love you so much," he insisted. Then, a last, flickered: "I lov – "

_Transmission cut._

. o .

Ava listened and listened and listened, for days, it seemed, to the white noise as the shuttle flew away to a safe distance. The Romulan ship never fired, didn't burst into flames like it should have but remained neutralized as they whisked her away to safety, her husband somewhere a thousand miles away scattered in infinite, irretrievable pieces.

And then she noticed the baby crying, blue eyes hidden underneath his eyelids as he scrunched up his face and wailed, and Ava couldn't keep her own tears at bay as she cradled the newborn to her chest and whispered, "I'm sorry."

_I'm so sorry, John._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit. I also do not own Star Trek or any of its characters; all Star Trek affiliates, including Gene Roddenberry and J.J. Abrams, hold those honors.

*Stardate: 2243.182

IOWA

"Hey. Wake up, squirt."

"No," Blaine groaned, rolling onto his stomach underneath the threadbare cover and flapping an arm in Cooper's direction as he continued to prod incessantly at his side. "Go away, Coop. It's too early."

"C'mon," Cooper insisted, hauling him out of the bed and tossing him over one shoulder.

Blaine knew better than to struggle – he'd only wake their snoozing uncle, a man with impeccable hearing and an exquisite temper – but he still groaned against Cooper's shoulder as they descended the staircase together, threading his arms around Cooper's neck. Toeing on a pair of boots and pushing the front door open with a creaky swing, Cooper carried him out into the dry midnight air, crickets and other small insects singing their wordless songs together in the thousands.

Piling him into their dad's ancient Chevy, Cooper slid into the driver's seat and fired up the engine. It rumbled to life with a dull roar, aged and worn but somehow miraculously functional. They slipped off into the night with the windows scrolled down and the Iowan air filling the car, the car moving smoothly over the packed dirt roads.

Blaine didn't ask where they were going. He just let the wind whip his hair back and started out across acres and acres of unattended fields, crops of every conception growing in their innumerable multitudes. Unable to tell in the dark where the road began and ended, he listened to the hush of corn swaying in the wind as they flew past, the speedometer creeping up to seventy-five miles-per-hour.

Motorized vehicles were part of an old system, a comparatively slow means of transportation, but there was something refreshing about cars and traveling on the land, on dirt roads through empty cities inhabited by nothing but vegetation. It made him feel at home, and even though he was still spiteful that Cooper had dragged him away from a rare sound sleep as their uncle lolled in a drunken torpor below, he couldn't help but appreciate the view, the atmosphere, the timelessness of it all.

They drove for an hour or so, by Blaine's best estimate, before pulling up to an abandoned shipyard. The giant metal frameworks that would have nestled starships were impressive to behold, and Blaine looked up – and up – seemingly indefinitely as they slowed to a halt just outside the gate, maybe a hundred yards before the chain link fence. Cooper pulled open his door and stepped outside, pacing down the road a dozen yards as Blaine hurried to do the same, innately curious.

Cooper had told him about the shipyards, and he'd dreamed up his own concepts of what they were supposed to look like based on Cooper's descriptions, but he'd never actually captured the sheer _scale _of the construction site accurately. The towers built to support the ships were monumental: some extended hundreds of feet into the air, winding spires with elevators and offices and connecting branches, entire cities of metal frameworks. There was a low hum of activity near the center, lights visible near a bunker at the base of one of the towers, but the shipyard was quiet, otherwise, and Blaine couldn't shake the feeling of profound abandonment that had settled over the scene.

"This used to be a hub of Starfleet shipbuilding activity," Cooper explained, gazing longingly up at the tall metal spires, sitting in the dirt and leaning back on his hands. Blaine settled on the ground beside him, listening to the quiet, indistinct hum of the night and Cooper's voice as he continued. "They used to build old starships here. Back when I was a kid, five or six, the last one they ever built was finishing up. _Constellation_-class, really amazing. Wish I'd been a little older, maybe your age. All I can really remember is that I couldn't believe how big it was." Reaching over to ruffle Blaine's hair, an afterthought, he sighed and said, "I wanted you to see what it looked like, at least. It's pretty spectacular, isn't it?"

"Spectacular," Blaine agreed, testing out the word and deciding that it really, really was. He couldn't imagine what the ship itself must have looked like. A sudden, aching longing burned through him as he asked, "Why did they leave?"

"No idea," Cooper admitted, tossing a stone towards the fence. "Mom says they'll come back to tear it down eventually."

Blaine gazed up at the shipyard and felt a new sense of dismay creep over him at the thought that it would disappear. "They can't do that," he said, knowing that it wasn't true. Starfleet was always on the move; their mother could testify to that with her six-month-long voyages across the Galaxy. It simply wasn't in its nature to sit still and dwell on the old, even antiquity as powerful as an empty shipyard.

They sat in silence for hours, it seemed, until at last Cooper sighed and said, "I didn't bring you here just to show you the shipyard."

Blaine frowned at him, about to ask what he meant when Cooper explained, "I'm leaving for San Francisco in the morning."

Blaine made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh as he said, "You're joking." Cooper's expression didn't change, jaw set in a hard line as he stared ahead, not looking at Blaine. "Coop. You're joking, right?" Blaine hated how pleading he sounded, how _desperate _he sounded, but the thought of being stuck in their house with only their uncle for company was unbearable.

"I have to get out of here, Blainey," Cooper said.

"Don't leave."

"Blaine."

"Please."

Cooper sighed, standing up and tucking his thumbs in his pockets, apologetic but determined. "C'mon, squirt. It's getting late."

Blaine couldn't help himself; he launched himself at Cooper, hugging him so tightly it hurt as he pressed his face against his side and pleaded, "Don't go."

Cooper wrapped an arm around him, hugging him back before sighing and prying him off as gently as he could. "Let's go home," he said.

Blaine didn't argue, knowing that the fight was lost as he piled into the Chevy after Cooper.

The ride home was far less mystical with the weight of Cooper's imminent departure lingering heavy on his heart.

. o .

VULCAN

"They called you a traitor." Kurt fixed his mother with imploring eyes, wincing as she dabbed at his cheek with a cloth.

Mollie sighed, commanding, "Hold this." Then, meeting his gaze when Kurt obligingly lifted a hand to hold the cloth in place, she drew him into her arms and hugged him. In the golden half-light of sunset, her chestnut-colored hair seemed even more striking as it brushed against his cheek, spilling over her shoulders magnificently on either side. She had been tending to the gardens when the security master had called to inform her that her son had been caught in another altercation, still dressed in her garden robes. Kurt could smell the lilacs clinging to her gown, a soft, pleasant flavor that seemed to ease the acrid taste of blood in his mouth.

"Kurt," she said at last, brushing his hair back, radiating tenderness from every pore. "I know that it's difficult, but I don't want you to rise to their anger."

Kurt wanted to say that he had been innocent, but he knew that lashing out with the caustic quip about his attackers' parentage had not done anything to calm the situation down. The shame of his own actions stung even more than the bruise forming across his cheek. Vulcans were mediators, first and foremost, calm, rational beings that lacked the flighty temperaments of Humans and other related species. They were reasonable in the face of conflict; debates among Vulcan council members were legendary for both their duration and symphonic rhythm, always an ebb and flow, a give and take.

Kurt had been cold-shouldering his offenders for the better part of six months, giving them ample opportunity to stop haranguing him and find a more satisfying hobby. Instead, they had pushed him with more and more force, three older Vulcan boys that had seemed to obtain inexplicable pleasure from Kurt's disquieted silence.

And then he had snapped, pushing the leader of the informal band hard enough to send him over the lip of the artificial crater, sliding in after him and swinging a punch before he could consider the consequences. They'd brawled briefly before Kurt had gotten the upper hand, blood burning as he punched his abuser's face over and over.

One of the security masters had eventually separated them, glaring coldly down at Kurt as he helped the other Vulcan to his feet. "You will report to the headmaster's office," the Vulcan had ordered him, and Kurt had beat a hasty retreat, knowing that harsher consequences were imminent.

He hadn't been expecting his mother.

"You have to learn to control it," she said, drawing him from his reverie as she let him go. Kurt unfolded himself from her hold, staring down at the floor and scuffing a toe against it lightly. Maybe he could find a nice planet where Vulcans and Humans coexisted, or where Hybrids of any species were more common. The marriage of Vulcan and Human blood was not exceptionally rare – anatomically speaking, it was all quite sound – but it was not a common occurrence, either.

Humans were wayward creatures. Vulcans were steady, seemingly timeless. There were no ripples in a Vulcan's life that unseated his fundamental certainty in the power of reason. All problems could be solved rationally; one simply chose whether or not to obey those laws.

Kurt wasn't sure which he preferred, at the end of the day; the freedom to live a life untethered, bold and mercurial and _alive, _or to live according to Vulcan standards, a lifestyle that promised serenity and certainty. It was his gift and burden alone – shared only by a handful of other Vulcans, most of whom had gone off planet for various reasons – that he was both Vulcan and Human, free to choose between the two.

"It won't happen again," he said, quiet but certain, clenching his hands into fists and his rage with it.

Before his mother could respond, Burt appeared around the bend at the end of the hallway, trotting down the corridor at a surprisingly good clip. "What the hell happened? And why wasn't I told sooner?" he demanded, coming to a halt in front of them. Kurt shrank away, embarrassed and ashamed, certain that he was about to get the scolding his mother was too polite to give.

"Burt," Mollie chided, rising to confront him, her entire posture placating.

Burt ignored her, directing his attention at Kurt before his gaze flickered back to hers and he said forcefully, "All I heard was some kid attacked _my kid_. What the hell happened?"

_I hit him first,_ Kurt wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat at the raw fear and anger in his father's voice. "Dad," he said softly, willing himself to be heard over the rage boiling just underneath the surface of Burt's skin.

"He could have been hurt," Burt ejected forcefully, refusing to be placated. "He could have been _killed._"

Almost visibly struck, Kurt shifted back, bearing his weight on his heels, ready to run if he needed to. He didn't know where the sudden surge of fear came from, except that his dad didn't exaggerate. His dad was rock steady and unflinching in the face of interspecies' challenges, supportive and comforting and calm. To see _Burt_ aggravated unnerved Kurt; he hadn't even considered the possibility that one – or both – of his tormentors could have overpowered him when he'd thrown the first punch.

"He wasn't," Mollie said calmly, interjecting when Kurt couldn't, resting a soothing hand on Burt's upper arm. "Burt."

The rage that had swelled in Burt's chest evaporated in an instant, replaced by slumping shoulders and a heavy sigh as he turned his attention to Kurt fully. "You okay, son?" he asked, his tone shifting to an almost apologetic neutrality.

Biting his lip against the urge to tell him exactly what the Vulcans had called him, Kurt breathed out a faint, "I'm fine."

Settling into a one-knee crouch so their gazes were level, Burt insisted stoically, "You can't – trust Vulcans too much. Not when they're young."

"Burt," Mollie reminded, resting a hand on his shoulder. Kurt averted his gaze politely, a reflex instilled as deeply in his bones as the traditional greeting. Vulcans were private; any display of affection was considered a touch above appropriate in open spaces. The touch didn't look suggestive to him, though; another reining in gesture, a tempering of Burt's own anger.

"He has to know," Burt said, but he retreated, straightening and letting out another defeated sigh. Running a hand over his balding scalp, he pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, "Is it worth it to speak to the Council about this?"

"Kurt is as likely to face expulsion from the academy as his attackers," Mollie replied, an answer and a denial all in one.

Kurt's stomach twisted at the thought; deprived of one of the finest educations that Vulcan institutions had to offer, his choices for a life beyond his youth would be severely limited.

He needed to get off-planet. Whether it was a temporary or permanent installment was negotiable, but he _needed _to get off planet.

Which meant that they couldn't press formal charges, no matter how crude the insults were or how violent the attacks became.

"It's fine," he insisted bluntly, wanting to push aside all the pain for a day and meditate in the gardens forever, anything to escape the shame and disappointment and twisted fear coursing through him. "I won't do it again. I won't let it happen again," he clarified.

Burt still seemed skeptical, fixing him with a questioning gaze before glancing out the tall windows lining the corridor, the sky already darkening with encroaching nightfall.

"All right," he said at last, gruffly, and Kurt knew that their conversation wasn't over, but he was still grateful for the temporary reprieve as his mother led the way down the corridor, Burt and he trailing dutifully behind.

Hours later, he was sitting cross-legged in their garden with Aesop curled up at his side, his white, furry limbs sprawled across the sandy ground and as Kurt stared up at the stars overhead.

Aesop belonged to a species known as _sehlats, _and not unlike Vulcans they had temperamental dispositions that, after countless years of domestication, had slowly retreated until a gentler beast remained in its stead. At just over five feet long and three feet at the shoulder, Aesop was massive, and Kurt didn't doubt that his six-inch long fangs could cure any wayward passerby of an unfriendly demeanor.

If _sehlats _were permitted on the academy grounds, then Kurt had no doubt that he wouldn't need to worry about defending his parents' dignity anymore.

Drawing in a deep breath and letting his eyes fall shut, he rested a hand on Aesop's fur and listened to the night, still and silent and perfect.

Vulcan was a magnificent place, and its people even more so. There were just some – a persistent few, it seemed – determined to ruin it all for Kurt.

Resolving not to let them, Kurt willed himself not to think about it, letting his mind become as open and empty as the sky above him until at last the ache disappeared.


End file.
